by Robb White
Ken would not have recognized him as a naval officer except for the tarnished brass bars of an ensign pinned to the unpressed, torn, faded khaki shirt.
The man had a black beard so long that it was hopelessly tangled. His officer’s cap was crushed, the bill broken, the cover spotted with grease, the chin strap tarnished green. His shoes had rotted away in places so that his bare feet stuck through them.
This ensign walked listlessly to the gangway, pulled himself up, and went along the dock to a pair of bollards. He sat down on one, pushed his decrepit cap back on his head to let the sun shine on his pale gray face, and began to pull with his fingers at the knots in his beard.
Ken walked over and said, “Good morning.”
The ensign gave him the sloppiest salute he had ever seen and said, “Good morning, Lieutenant.”
“My name’s Braden,” Ken said.
“Malone.”
Ken suddenly discovered that the ensign’s eyes were bright blue and young. The beard was what made him look about fifty years old.
Over in the shade the musicians began to stir, picking up their instruments, playing single notes or little runs, the drummer tapping out a very soft beat. The group of officers also became more alert. A truck drove up with crates of milk and fruit so cold that the air condensed on them.
The ensign looked out over the harbor. “Wahoo9s coming in,” he announced.
Ken saw it now, too. The long, low, dark gray ship moving slowly and carefully toward the dock. It, too, was ugly with peeling paint and rust but it was shipshape and, somehow, far more lethal-looking than the submarine tied up in front of him.
“Man,” the ensign said, “I’d love to be back in that boat.”
Ken watched the Wahoo turn in toward the dock.
The ensign said, “I heard that the Wahoo got a load of faulty torpedoes. When she got out to the Sea of Japan with targets everywhere her fish wouldn’t work. Boy, wouldn’t that burn you! I bet the Wahoo’s Old Man is wild”
The band began to play. Crews on the fore- and afterdecks of the Wahoo heaved lines ashore to the men on the dock and soon she was tied up.
Ken watched a lieutenant commander come down the conning tower ladder. Unlike Ensign Malone, the commander was shaved and clean, his cap military, his khakis almost as starched as Ken’s own.
“That’s Mush Morton,” the ensign said. “Just the greatest submariner there ever was.”
Morton saluted the group of officers, the band played, men hauled the mail and fruit aboard.
As Morton wheeled past Ken, with the officers hurrying to keep up with him, Ken saw his face.
Morton’s face was almost white with anger. His eyes were blazing, his lips pressed together until they were gray. Both hands were clenched into fists, and as he walked he leaned forward like, Ken thought, a boxer going in.
As they passed, the bearded ensign said, “I told you Mush was mad. Did you see his face? Man, wouldn’t that slay you —to take your boat right out under the gun, right into the Japoons back yard, and then have all your fish fail to fire?”
“Fish?”
The ensign looked bored. “Torpedoes, Lieutenant, torpedoes.”
Ken said, “Oh,” and sat down on the other bollard.
Morton had walked away so fast that the band was left playing by itself. The men of the Wahoo paid no attention to it as they settled down to eat fruit, drink milk, and read the mail. In a little while the music dribbled to a stop, the musicians packed up and left.
Ken had noticed that, in spite of what he had been taught during Navy indoctrination, submarines were referred to as “boats.” He didn’t want to get another “Torpedoes, Lieutenant,” treatment, so he asked, “What’s the name of your boat?”
Ensign Malone turned his head slowly, his beard flowing over his shoulder, and looked wearily at the submarine. Ken could see nothing but contempt in his eyes.
“That,” the ensign said, “is the So Scared Maru. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, that boat.”
A marine on a motorcycle roared out on the dock and stopped in front of the ensign. Throwing a salute with machine precision, the marine pointed to the Wahoo and asked, “Is that the Shark, sir?”
The ensign gazed sorrowfully at the marine. “Son, don’t let them hear you say that. That’s the Wahoo”
“I’m looking for the Shark, sir.”
The ensign waved his hand wearily toward the submarine. “That is the Shark”
“Where’ll I find the Officer of the Deck? I’ve got a message for him.”
“I am the Officer of the Deck.”
The marine stared at him, surprised, but dug into the saddlebags and brought out an envelope. The ensign signed for it and the motorcycle roared away.
Ken waited until the ensign had read the message.
The ensign said, “Oh, the foulness of my fate,” and stuffed the paper into his hip pocket. “Were going right back to sea. We have only spent fifty-seven days paddling around out there. Were tired, were bushed, were whipped, we don’t like each other, we need a rest. But we’re going right back to sea as soon as some j.g. makes up his mind about something.” He turned and gazed at Ken. “It must be wonderful to be a j.g., isn’t it, Lieutenant?”
“Wonderful.”
“I wouldn’t be a j.g. for anything. Too much responsibility. … I wonder what this mysterious man is making up his mind about. I wonder where we’re going. I wonder … I just wonder.”
“It doesn’t sound like you care much for submarines,” Ken told him.
The ensign looked at the filthy, gray, rusty ship. Suddenly he was very serious. “You’re wrong, Lieutenant. I like submarines. I wouldn’t serve in anything else the Navy’s got. But I’ll tell you something, since you aren’t in the boats and won’t understand anyway, begging your pardon, Lieutenant, sir. I want to serve in a submarine that gets a band on the dock when she comes home. I want to serve in a submarine that comes home with a broomstick on her conning tower meaning she swept up her area, sank everything in sight, and shot all her fish. I want to serve in a submarine that goes in close and delivers. I want to serve in a submarine that when the cork comes down around your ears you don’t mind so much because some Jap ship is going to the bottom with one of your fish in her belly. I want to serve in a submarine— Say, how does it feel to be all shaved and iron-pants?”
‘I’ve just come from the States,” Ken apologized.
“The States? The United States of America? And how, pray, are they?”
“All right. What’s it like in a submarine?”
“Depends on which one you’re in.” The ensign tried to get a finger through his beard so he could scratch. “I wonder if the Wahoo needs a real genius like me. Combination diving officer, navigator, torpedo mender, engineer, electrician, acey-deucy champ, and COMSACKPAC. But nobody needs an ensign.”
The ensign stood up, brushed off the seat of his already dirty trousers, saluted, and went back aboard the submarine. Ken could hear him yelling orders down the hatch, and soon a group of men, all with beards, came slowly out on deck. The ensign said something to them which started a violent argument.
The sun was setting now. Ken could see it through the window of his room in the Makapala Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. The light grew soft over Pearl Harbor and began to fade on the great green mountains of Oahu.
Distances now seemed longer, and Ken thought again of those faraway enemy islands with the harsh, unfriendly names.
In the small room there were three double-decker bunks, six lockers, and some chairs. Five of the bunks had names on them, so he took the last one, a top bunk in the comer.
Sometime during the day his gear had come and was now in the middle of the room. There were two brand-new wooden crates and his Valpack.
The boxes were stencilled with his name and rank and nothing else. Then, instead of coming from the Supply Officer, Coronado, where the school was, they were marked Supply Officer, Mare Island.
Ken sat down in one of
the chairs. The light faded away and left him, at last, in total darkness. The new, unpainted wood of the boxes gleamed a little and he could see the whiteness of the bedclothes, but the rest of the room was dark.
What should he do?
A feeling almost like anger stirred in him. How could they expect a man to say, “Yes, I’ll risk my life,” without even telling him what for—why? Without even telling him what they wanted him to do—or where—or how? How could he make a decision—with nothing?
Then he remembered the admiral’s saying, “It’s important. It’ll save some lives, save some ships.”
What did he have to do? What was going to threaten his life? Where would the submarine take him? What was the job?
The unanswered questions made him feel confused and helpless. Did he really want to risk his life?
Suddenly the lights snapped on and a full lieutenant came in, throwing his overseas cap on one of the beds. “Hello,” he said, checking the blackout shields.
Ken, standing up at attention, said, “Good evening, sir.”
“What’s all this stuff?” the lieutenant asked, kicking one of the crates.
“Some gear of mine, sir.”
The lieutenant stared at him. “How in the world can a j.g. accumulate that much gear? You must be going to war in a full-dress uniform complete with cocked hat and epaulets.”
Ken, who was fairly sure what was in the crates, started to explain. Then he remembered the girl on Shell Beach, the man who had given him a lift. Embarrassed, he shoved the boxes out of the way as well as he could.
Soon four more lieutenants came in. After greeting Ken they ignored him and began talking among themselves. In a little while Ken guessed that they were communications officers, for they talked of NPM, FOX, decoding and dispatches.
One of them suddenly turned to Ken. “You must be fresh from Stateside.”
“Fairly,” Ken said.
“Are you a communicator?”
“No, sir. I’m just in the officers’ pool.”
“Oh. Then why were you assigned to this room?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Well, you might as well get squared away. You can put your gear in that locker and we can get those crates out of here.”
“I thought I’d just leave them unopened, sir, until I get assigned to a billet.”
The lieutenant laughed. “That might be months from now. Anyway, no ship is going to let you lug that much stuff aboard. You might as well start getting rid of some of it now.” He pulled open a drawer of the table and got a hammer. “Here,” he said, tossing it.
Ken caught the hammer. Although he wasn’t absolutely sure, he thought he knew what was in the crates. The masks, lungs, cylinders, and weights. He could hear the admiral saying, “I don’t want anybody to know who you are … what your training has been. It may cost you your life.”
But the lieutenant was looking at him, waiting for him to unpack.
Ken got up slowly and walked over to the crates. If he refused to open them it would be almost as bad as exposing the gear because the other officers would then get curious, or even suspicious. They might even order him to open them or, worse, get a lot of brass in here—Naval Intelligence people, security officers, and that sort of thing.
Ken hammered for a little while on one of the crates without getting any of the planks loose. Then suddenly he stared at his watch. Then he rushed for the door. “I’m supposed to be up at the submarine base right now. I almost forgot,” he said, hurrying out.
He took the hammer with him.
Outside in the dark he walked fast until he could no longer see the BOQ. Then he slowed down.
He walked until after midnight. When he got back to the room there was no light, and as he silently went in he could hear the other officers in their beds.
The crates were where he had left them, still closed.
Undressing in the dark, he climbed up to his bunk and lay down.
But he couldn’t think. Lying there with his hands under his head, he simply could not think. The room was full of the sounds of men breathing and snoring and moving.
Why had he been picked for this job? He was only one of tens of thousands of people in the Navy; just another j.g. Another civilian dressed up in a sailor suit; another reserve officer like the five sleeping around him.
Those five weren’t going out, alone, to risk their fives. They were going, every day, up the hill to CINCPAC to code and decode messages.
Although he had no idea what it was the admiral wanted him to do, he could at least guess that it had to do with something under water. Why else would they have asked for volunteers from the UDT school? Maybe it was blowing mines on a Jap beach, or planting them; maybe it was just to do a recon on a beach or an island. But, whatever it was, it was dangerous.
He wasn’t a very good swimmer. There’d been plenty in his class who were better. And he hadn’t done too well during Hell Week when they had tried to find out who was physically capable of taking the punishment of underwater training and who wasn’t. He’d barely endured that long week of physical and mental torture.
Why should he risk his life?
At last, he went to sleep.
Sometime before dawn he woke up again. The communicators were still breathing and snoring, the double-decker beds creaking as they moved.
Outside there was a full, warm moon and some sort of night birds were singing.
Ken wondered suddenly what the moon looked like tonight to the men in the prison camps of Japan. He wondered if night birds were singing out there, too.
Suddenly, and for no reason, Ken thought about the ensign with the dirty beard and rotten shoes and greasy cap.
“I want to serve …”
Chapter 3
At the Underwater Demolition School reveille had been at six in the morning. Now, in Pearl Harbor, Ken woke up on the dot of six. The communicators were still snoring but the myna birds were awake and endlessly fighting.
He got dressed quickly and quietly. In the mess hall there were only a few officers having breakfast.
At the sub base there was already a commotion around the Shark. Trucks were drawn up alongside and lines of men were handing down provisions and supplies. Torpedoes were being loaded into her through hatches in the decks and men were passing ammunition for the 5-inch guns.
He had not realized how big the torpedoes were. He guessed that they were twenty feet long and, from the way the men were working, must weigh a ton.
He found Ensign Malone directing the torpedo loading through the forward hatch. His cap was just as battered and greasy, but he had washed his beard so that it now shone black, thick, and curly in the sunlight.
“Good morning, Lieutenant Braden,” Malone said, going through the sloppy salute.
“Morning, Mr. Malone,” Ken said, returning it.
Malone directed a crew handling a diesel fuel hose line and, after he had it placed where he wanted it, came over to stand by Ken.
“Hope that j.g. has a hard time making up his mind, I’d like to get a day off. If I had a day off, do you know what I’d do?”
“Shave?”
“I’d shave if I had two days off. But not for just one. No, I’d get five gallons of milk and go lie on the beach. I’d he there all day long without thinking. I’m tired of thinking, Lieutenant.”
“What do you think about so hard?”
“Mostly about what I’d do if I was Skipper of this boat. The first thing I’d do, I’d pass a law. Now hear this, there will be no torpedo shooting beyond a range of fifteen hundred yards. Then I’d pass another law. The U.S.S. Shark will not withdraw from the scene of battle just because there are too many enemy ships around or because they’re too big. I would soon be known throughout the fleet as Menace Malone. But, since I’ve got to get myself promoted all the way from ensign to commander, I doubt if those laws ever get passed aboard this scow. So I will continue to be known as Mixed-up Malone.”
A chief
petty officer came over and said, “All torpedoes aboard, sir.”
“All good fish and true, Chief?” Malone asked.
“That I wouldn’t know. I was talking to Wahoo’s Chief of the Boat last night. They had a foul time out there. Plenty of targets, targets everywhere, and just one faulty fish after the other. Every time they fired the roof fell in. Once the Jap cans dropped stuff on them for thirty hours straight. He says Captain Morton is ready to go to Washington and blow up the Bureau of Ordnance.”
“I’ll go with him,” Malone said.
The chief said, “These fish we’ve got are a new type. The boys guarantee ‘em. When are we shoving off, sir?”
Malone shrugged. “Our fate lies in the hands of a j.g. We shove off when he makes up his mind.”
“Oh no!” the chief said. “What is this, a special mission of some sort?”
“I don’t know. But it sure looks like it.”
The chief said, walking away, “That this should happen to us.
“He doesn’t seem to be very happy,” Ken remarked.
“He isn’t. None of us are. This is not a happy ship, Lieutenant.”
A clock somewhere began to strike and Malone said, “Colors.”
Ken, also standing at attention and saluting the flag, glanced at Malone out of the corner of his eye. In spite of the greasy cap and the beard, the rotten shoes and torn clothing, Malone seemed military. There was something about him—a strength and a purpose that you could see now, and feel.
At the end Malone said, “Eight bells and I’m still an ensign. Well, so long, Lieutenant, sir. With your permission, I’ll be shoving off to continue my many duties both above and below.”
Ken turned away from the Shark and started up the hill.
The sun now was hot, so he walked slowly, trying not to sweat.
In the admiral’s outer office the commander greeted him and called the admiral on the squawk box. “Ask him to come in,” the admiral’s voice answered.
Ken went into the now familiar room and closed the door.
“Sit down, Braden. Don’t they have wonderful mornings out here in Hawaii?”